


What Once Was Mine: Part One

by tellmesomethinglove



Series: What Once Was Mine [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:39:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9400121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmesomethinglove/pseuds/tellmesomethinglove
Summary: Failing to impress a reclusive king and win the hand of his son, Princess Emma of Misthaven is married off to a Captain in the Royal Navy. When her new husband is found dead on their wedding night, all evidence points to Emma as his killer. Cast out from her family, disgraced, and at the mercy of a hostile realm, Emma sets her sights on escape—and on Killian Jones as her route home.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick warning—this story does contain some SF, and Neal (Baelfire in this fic) will have some POV chapters, and the same goes for Regina later on, but I promise it is a CS story. They’re just a bit of a slow-burn in this one. I changed the name of Emma’s brother to Charles. And just so everyone is prepared, I can’t promise that no main/beloved characters will die. As far as Part One goes, the POV will switch between Emma, Killian, Baelfire, and Wendy Darling.
> 
> Hope you guys like it!

_The king was dead._

_She had no affinity with death before that night.  Before she was engulfed by its bloodlust.  Before she tasted its haunted breath._

_It was a taste never forgotten, never outlived.  Like the stench of burning flesh or the mass of broken bodies etched into her memory._

_Like the final image of her father._

_A faceless shadow stood over him, enveloped by tendrils of black smoke.  Emma had known that silhouette all her life.  She imagined its eyes radiant with the glow of victory as a soft but resonant chortle choked the air._

_“The king is dead,” the shadow crooned.  “Long live the queen.”—_

Footsteps echoed overhead.  Advancing. When Emma looked to her side, she frowned for the one who’d left it cold.  The cellar was empty, as dark as when she’d reluctantly succumbed to sleep, and her head ached from the sobs that Charles had failed to soothe.  Emma crawled across a dirt floor to the only exit, and with palms flat against the floorboards, she pushed open the hatch.

Two bloodstained boots waited at its threshold.  Charles knelt as near the edge as he dared, and offered his hand.  “I was just coming to wake you.”

“Why did you leave?”

Emma let him help her up.  Once above ground, she started to wipe the dust from her dark pants, from the hem of a tunic that did little to disguise the fact that she was a woman despite its being two sizes too large, before declaring it a lost cause.  With the journey they had ahead of them, it seemed pointless to fret over something so trivial.  But if she was being honest, it wasn’t the dirt that bothered her.  It was the ash.  It was knowing where it’d come from.  Who the ashes once had been.

In another life, their sanctuary was a summer cottage.  Signs of decay now showed at every inch.  Spiders spun webs in the eaves, dust blanketed every surface.  In the drawing room, a looking glass lay shattered beneath its frame, much like another Emma had seen.  One that had seen her.  The garden, once the loveliest in the realm—lovelier even than the king’s own—had wilted and withered until all that remained was scorched earth.

“Killian thought he spotted scouts.”  Charles removed his peasant’s cloak and went to wrap it around Emma.

But Emma waved him off, hoping he didn’t notice the way her hand shook.  “Aren’t you the one we have to hide?”

It was the reason he was dressed as a common farmhand and not a prince.

_The king is dead_ , a cruel voice reminded her.

“How else are we going to cover that hair?”  He said with a smile.  While Emma appreciated his attempt at improving her mood, it was too soon.  It wasn’t right to smile when their father was gone.  “You’ll give off our position from a mile away.”

“I’m not the only blonde in the kingdom,” Emma snapped.

“Only the fairest.”

“Charles.”  Emma bit back a sob but couldn’t stop the tears from burning silent paths down her face. “Please don’t—”

“Quote Father?”

Unable to find her voice, Emma nodded.  Wasn’t it bad enough that Charles was the spit and image of David?  That not even a full day had passed since they’d been a family? And now—

Charles pulled her into an embrace, no doubt having observed the quiver in her lower lip, and cupped the back of her head in his hand—

Emma shoved him away and dried her cheeks with her sleeve, avoiding her brother’s wounded gaze.

_Too soon_ , that voice said.   _Too much, too real._

Perhaps a little to spite her brother but mostly to spare herself an unwanted emotional display, Emma raised one hand in the air, turned it at the wrist, and the long layers withdrew from her shoulders.  She felt the crisp morning air bite the back of her neck and the tips of her ears.

“Is this better?”

Charles looked quickly over his shoulder, toward the door he’d left open, and then back at Emma, his good humor a distant memory.  “That isn’t funny.”

Emma rolled her eyes.  Magic—or rather, Emma’s cavalier attitude toward it—was the one thing she could count on to kindle her brother’s unease.  What if the people thought she was like all those dark wizards their father had driven out of Misthaven?

_“There is such a thing as Light magic,”_ Emma had said in her own defense.

To which Charles had replied, _“See how well that justification works when they lock you up for being a witch.”_

_Emma sighed and gave him a withering look.  “So dramatic, Little Brother.”_

_“Younger brother,” Charles corrected.  “And future king, you’ll do well to remember.”_

_“It’s too early in the day for horror stories.”_

“I don’t see what difference it makes now.”

“The _difference_ is someone could see you.”

“ _Someone_ being your wife?”

Charles clenched his jaw as the argument Emma knew he was itching to make died on his tongue.   _“Don’t call her that,”_ was all but written in his narrowed eyes.

Instead of inciting another row, Emma dropped the glamour on her hair and said, “Where is Killian now?”

Charles took a step back, returned the cloak to his own shoulders—for no better reason than distraction, it seemed.  “He’s helping Regina prepare the horses.”

He couldn’t quite say her name without cringing.  Emma couldn’t blame him.  Entirely. Even if she did think him too prone to paranoia—the events of last night only fanning the flames of his mistrust.  “I wouldn’t wish an arranged marriage on anyone, but Regina isn’t the great evil you think she is.”

“So it’s coincidence that her mother killed our father the same hour she and I were wed?”

Emma ignored the sinking feeling in her chest that told her Charles’ suspicions may not have been wholly unfounded—not a day into his nuptials and the kingdom in ruins.  As much as she wanted to, she could no longer trust him.

“Why would Cora help raze a kingdom she wanted her daughter to rule?”

“Do you think she cannot rebuild?  That she could not erect a castle as easily as you can shorten your hair?  Her magic isn’t comprised of parlor tricks, Emma. There are things she can do that you can’t.”

Emma could tell he regretted the words as soon as they were out, but it was too late. Their damage was done.  And when she next spoke, it was with a tone so devoid of absolution that it sent a chill down her spine.  “Like raise the dead?”

Killian had once told Emma she was an open book.  She’d never felt more like one than in that moment, as hurt flashed in her brother’s eyes.  Emma didn’t apologize.  She couldn’t. Because no matter how hard Charles tried to imitate the man who’d raised them, physical appearance was where the resemblance ended.  David never would’ve done what Charles did.

She brushed past him, her steps echoing in the vacant space.  Just before she reached the door, Charles said, “I had no choice, Emma.  It was him or it was you.”

All night her father’s face had haunted her, had spawned nightmares mixed with memory. For the first time since a single squeeze of Cora’s hand had reduced his heart to ash, Emma allowed herself to mourn another—if only for the split-second that Baelfire’s anguished cry resounded in her mind.

Every shred of sisterly affection left her—the last piece of her that’d escaped the night unscathed, unbroken until that moment.  Fury flowed like blood through her veins.  The rest of her was as hollow as the house that’d sheltered them for a few dark hours before dawn.

When she and Baelfire had stayed there—what now felt a lifetime ago—it’d been the elements and not the capital’s soldiers that’d driven them inside.

“There’s always a choice, Charles.  You saved the wrong person.”

“You’re my sister."

Emma stared out at the soft morning, heard birds chirping merrily in the trees. The day had been bright even before the sun crept across the hills to greet them, and was scented with a hint of Middlemist.  These details were a personal affront to Emma, who was not so easily swayed by a forgetful landscape, as though it could so sweetly annul the massacre at Misthaven.

Killian and Regina kept watch near the horses the two of them had borrowed from a farm just outside the border where Misthaven met the Forest for which it was so often confused.  Each steed had a coat that was darker than shadow and eyes like a devouring abyss.  They’d taken rather quickly to Regina, who now fed one of the beasts their group’s last apple.  Wendy stayed by Killian’s side—her self-appointed post for the foreseeable future—as her eyes darted about the branches overhead, uncertain of the sounds that only yesterday they all would have dismissed as ambient noise.

_Life goes on_ , people were prone to say in times of tragedy.   _The sun does not cease to rise because one person dies._

What about two people?  What about a kingdom?

Would the sun cease to rise on a world if enough of its souls departed?

“You would’ve done the same if it was me.”

It must’ve been the suddenness of trauma, that she’d let Charles hold her while she cried.  It must’ve been grief that’d made her forget, just for one night.  That’d allowed her to look past what he’d done to save her. Maybe it was the understanding that they were the only family now left to one another.  A new bond formed over a broken one—the way bones healed but were never the same.

Emma didn’t turn around.

She took the first step away from her brother, her boot catching patches of golden light breaking through the trees.  The breeze tickled her skin, ran like invisible fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, imagined Baelfire’s hand closing around hers.  And each new step was easier than the last.


	2. Little Darling

One Year Earlier…

 

Defeat caught up with Wendy as she stared out at the unspoiled expanse—the farthest she’d dared wander on her own from the very specific quarter to which she’d been assigned.  This spot, this patch of stone that divided her two hearts—one predictable and ordinary and _kept_ , and another as of yet uncharted—was her favorite place in all the realm.  The king and his court behind—miles removed for all the space they occupied in her thoughts—and the worlds ahead.

Her bare toes hung over the pavement’s edge, longing to taste terrain.  The bushes at her back sprouted spring flowers, half-dormant trees rustled in the wind that whipped the hair around her neck, a field of heather stretched out before her, swaying like amethyst waves, daring her to take the step she’d feared all these months.  And in the distance, beyond the garden’s edge, beyond where the palace walls ended and the southern coast began, if Wendy squinted hard enough, and if she had the courage to bear it, she imagined she could just make out the final remnants of another Age dissolving into the sea.

Baelfire’s steps echoed despite the wind in her ears.  Wendy didn’t turn around, but she envisioned his body bent forward, hands clutching knees as he labored for breath.  His guard wasn’t far behind.  They’d chased her from one end of the palace to the next, out the west gate, across the cobblestone courtyard, under the sculpted stone arch, through the freshly pruned labyrinthine trees, to garden’s end, the clang of metal sounding a promise with each advancing step: if Bae didn’t catch her, Mulan would.

“Why did you run from me?”

Wendy opened her mouth to respond, to tell him that his was a stupid question, but she’d left her voice at the threshold of his chambers, trapped inside a severely younger version of herself.

“Wen?”

His pleading tone pulled at something inside her.  Something deep, ancient as the ground on which they stood.  Before he could touch a hand to her shoulder and force her round, Wendy spun on her heel to face him.  The wind reshaped the layers of her long hair, keeping their whipping ends from her eyes.  Patches of sunlight spotted Bae’s skin; tufts of dark hair were tossed about his head until they resembled the waves of heather still whispering her name.

He’d been described as, _“Lacking in proper musculature for a defender of nations.”_   His complexion had been deemed splotchy, his hair not as full as some might prefer, and he had not inherited his father’s strong chin or broad shoulders.  Or innate attractiveness.  They wondered how such a prince as this would ever find a wife.  Bae was all of these things, but Wendy didn’t mind because he was positively the greatest thing to ever happen to the worlds.  And in her esteem, there could be no equal.

Unlike the palace staff, so taken with doubt and disapproval, Wendy did not fear that his would be a life lived alone, but that she, herself, would be too late in proving worthy of his affections.

His open shirt hung loose from his trousers and he carried one of his boots in his hand.  Seeing this made Wendy brave.  “Why were you naked with that woman?”

Bae averted his eyes.  Mulan, too, looked away.  Wendy would’ve thought it comical were it not so insulting—how the two of them could be so skittish and still call her a child.  Insist she was young and therefore couldn’t fathom the complexities of adult emotion.  Of passion and desire.  Infatuation.  Obsession.  Lust versus love.  Innocent and unaware was Wendy in their eyes.  What might their reactions have been had she remarked on something more scandalous than Bae’s state of undress?

“Are you in love with her?”  Bae ran his hand in an upward motion from the base of his neck to the top of his head, an action that did his appearance no favors.  “Or is she another distraction?  Will you grow tired of her like you did my cousin and cast her aside?”

“That isn’t fair—”

“Well, I should hardly think you intend to _marry_ this one, now you’ve gotten what you wanted.”  What should’ve earned Wendy a reproach turned Baelfire’s features cold.  He looked in that moment the way his father looked before delivering a particularly mournful speech.  Wendy racked her memory for the confirmation Bae wouldn’t voice, for any announcement that’d accompanied the foreign court’s arrival to their shores.  “I’ve heard nothing of an engagement.”

“It isn’t official…yet.”  Wendy observed the set of his shoulders as he surveyed the garden, the strained tone his words took on, the apology in his eyes that asked her to understand.  She didn’t want to understand.  “My father gave me an ultimatum.  If I didn’t choose a bride by Year's End, he’d give my inheritance over to one of my sisters’ sons.”

Year's End was two days ago.  The visiting court had come to the capital a full month in advance so as not to disrupt the festivities.  The worlds were still coming back to life—the garden that currently bore witness to their conversation showing Glowerhaven’s first signs of rebirth.  How long, then, had Bae been engaged?  How long had he kept the secret of it to himself?

“And you choose _her_?”

She was beautiful, of course.  The visiting princess.  And her marriage to Bae made sense, even if Wendy was loath to admit it.  With the rate at which the courts were crumbling, the capital could use any ally willing to take it.

Baelfire’s gaze faltered and tension formed in his jaw.  “She’s really not quite so terrible once you’ve spent time with her.”

_Or seen her without her clothes?_

“Really not quite so terrible,” Wendy echoed his words back to him, that he might grasp their absurdity.  “You’re a true romantic, Bae, has anyone told you that?”  He grinned like she’d paid him a compliment.  “Why her?”

“I want to be king,” he said.  But this statement must’ve sounded as flat to him as it did to her because he rushed to add: “There is great unrest in the worlds right now, Wen.  The peaceful co-existence our ancestors achieved—well, it's no longer feasible.  Too much has changed.  Too much has remained the same.  This degree of conflict hasn't been seen since the Ogre Wars—with an immortal army on our side, we might stand a chance against the m…” he cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Wendy and then away, “…those who seek to invade.”

“Monsters?”  Bae had the good sense to look ashamed.  “Is that what you were going to say?”

He looked out at the horizon, at the diminishing decay Wendy had turned her back on.  He couldn’t see it, of course.  In truth, Wendy couldn’t either.  Not with her half-mortal eyes.  But she’d felt it, same as every year when their world was reborn.  It was like a thousand deaths ripping through her.  And she could’ve sworn, though she’d only admitted as much to Bae once and would not be so foolish again, that it’d been the cries of a great multitude that’d wrenched her from a restless sleep.  It wasn’t normal, Bae had told her, to feel things as deeply as Wendy did.  It wasn’t human.

Everyone else saw the changes—once fruitful farmlands turned barren, rivers that once overflowed turned to dried-up fissures in the earth—but none of them _felt_ it when their world died.

Baelfire didn’t want to answer—or, more to the point, he didn’t want to answer honestly.  “Yes.”

“Do you think _I’m_ a monster?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“But Emma is?”

“Emma is…” Bae sighed, closing his eyes to help rein in his impatience, “…different.”

He had that look again.  The one Wendy would’ve previously described as vacant.  She realized now how full it was.  How loaded with unshared burdens.  How heavy they must’ve been to carry all on his own.

Wendy swallowed against a dry throat as the wind persuaded her forward, as it urged her to say what she’d later loathe herself for letting loose—what should’ve stayed locked away, deep down, where no one would ever bear witness to its wretched longing.  “You could marry _me_.”

Baelfire laughed, but the sound ceased when he observed Wendy’s conviction.  She stared up at him, silently imploring him to see her as the woman she was well on her way to becoming and not the little girl who’d followed his every move from the very instant she knew how.  But she felt the futility of her actions as a voice in the back of her mind chose this moment to mock her.

_“Poor little darling.  So naïve.”_

“I know I’m not _technically_ mortal, not fully.  But my mother was.  Or my father.  It’s why they gave me away.  It has to be.  And I know James is _only_ a Lord—”

“Wendy…” he brushed the hair from her shoulder, against the wind, and rested his hand in its place.

_Don’t say it._

_Please don’t say it._

“You are still very young.”

Wendy’s shoulders slumped.  She tried to injure Bae with a scowl, conscious of the fact that such mental aptitude was not only forbidden under the law, like all magic, but nigh on unheard of in Glowerhaven these days.  “I’m not so young.”

“No?  I was practically the age that you are now the day you were born.”

“Five years younger, actually, and what does that matter?”

“It matters.”

Wendy’s voice shook around the words, “I love you,” but she didn’t regret them.  Not yet.  Not when they were the final desperate appeal of a heart that wasn’t ready to surrender.

Baelfire took to one knee, his expression pained.  “I love you, too—of course I do.  But Wen, it has to be this way.  I had to choose someone…else.  Tell me you understand.”

Wendy wanted nothing more than to turn from him and run headlong into another life.  The same one that’d called to her these thirteen years, that’d beckoned her like the home she didn’t remember leaving.  She wanted to run her fingers through the fields of heather and let the wind carry her fast and far away.  What undying lands still waited beyond the Gates of Glowerhaven?

She settled for a single solemn nod and said, “I understand.”


	3. At Least I Can Say That I've Tried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: brief mention of suicide, minor description of gruesome death.

“Wendy…” Baelfire began in a consolatory tone that felt both foreign and familiar.  It’d become the voice in his head from the moment Wendy first looked at him with that tell-tale expression, but he’d never spoken his concerns aloud—how could he?

It was no secret how ardently she’d always looked up to him.  Perhaps it was Bae’s own fault for encouraging the friendship between them, but she had so few acquaintances outside her immediate family—a detail she hadn’t been afforded the opportunity to change, treated as she was like more of a pet than a child.  She reminded Baelfire of the birds in the palace aviary, with so clear and stunning a view of the sky they could never reach.

She was taller than other girls her age, which gave the impression she was older than her thirteen years.  The plumpness that’d clung to her cheeks for most of her life had lessened in the last year until all that remained were slender lines that met at a narrow chin.  Looking at her now, it was difficult to recall the infant she’d been when her adoptive parents brought her home or the toddler that’d once been like a second shadow, teetering after Bae wherever he went.  But she was still far from grown.

“May I go, now?”  A tremor passed her lips as she whispered.  “Please, Bae?  May I go?”

He removed his hand from her shoulder and she walked away with exaggerated grace, following the path that’d led them to the garden’s outermost point.

Baelfire looked to his other hand, still grasping the boot that’d waited out their exchange.  Creases were scrawled across the leather, the highest concentration along each bend, spreading outward like talons.  Once black in color, the hue had faded to gray.  A single mark stood out among the rest, not simply for its shape—which bore an uncanny resemblance to a raven with wings outstretched—but because it had been the first of many flaws.  Baelfire’s eyes traced its edges during lapses in attention when members of the King’s Council grew exceptionally long-winded, and each time, the memory of Emma’s laugh echoed in his mind.

_“Now we match,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief.  When Baelfire switched their positions, pinning her against the tangled sheets from whence they’d emerged, her laughter rang out and infected every part of him._

Fitting, that he’d chosen this pair over a dozen others.  He’d worn them the day he’d taken Wendy from the palace against her parents’ wishes, and the day they'd returned to suffer the warranted wrath.  The night he’d caught Emma in a lie, the imprinted raven had lacked the requisite consolation.  Bae had been the one to discover Liam—what was left of him—and their soles had fallen crimson, until daybreak, when he’d had the good sense to wash away the remnants of his eldest sister’s son.

Baelfire was beginning to think them tokens of misfortune, this pair of boots, for they’d borne witness to the darkest hours of his life.

He stood and faced Mulan, who offered no spoken opinion.  A veteran of every conflict Glowerhaven had seen in his lifetime, the guard was above platitudes.  One’s actions received her approval or her disregard—it was no wonder she and Wendy got on so well.

Clutching the embodiment of his most dreaded memories, Bae sauntered toward the palace with one foot unshod and Mulan at his back.  The wind was cold as it followed them through the labyrinth, a few sudden and short-lived gusts with intent to topple them.  Mulan’s armor clattered and clanged with every move she made and Bae wondered how effective it truly was when it could be heard from a mile off.

“What became of your old armor?”  He asked.

“Dispensed with,” said Mulan.  “On Lord James’ order.”  She tugged at the collar of her tunic, a sapphire cut of cloth peeking from beneath the breastplate.  “Wants to make an impression.”

“Then he should consider his plan a success.”

“Our visitors have him rather ill-at-ease.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Mulan scoffed.  “I haven’t seen Lord James this agitated since his son was born a daughter.”

Bae halted, his entire body tensing.  He looked warily at Mulan, who met his stare.  “Do you have men stationed at Lethe?”

“Yes.”

“Competent men?”  Mulan answered with a glower, which Bae ignored.  “Order their numbers increased.”  The guard started to nod when Bae spoke again.  “As soon as possible—during this morning’s Council.”  He scratched at his chin, freshly shaved, as he thought through every potential disaster that could arise if preventative measures weren’t taken.

“Even madmen are allowed their share of dark days—surely the prince sees plots where none exist—”

“And if I’m right?”  Bae reached out his hand to inspect the craftsmanship of his guard’s new suit.  “Is it heavy?”

Mulan rotated her arms at the shoulders.  “Not inordinately.”

“How far do you suppose the sound carries?”

“He’s set a trap, is that it?”  Mulan spoke dismissively, but Bae caught the shadow of doubt that crossed her eyes.  “It’s your father’s opinion that Lord James poses no viable threat.”

“It’s also my father’s opinion that the worlds are flat.  Why does James remain at court if his forces have been neutralized?  Why does the king keep him at his right hand?”

Mulan didn’t respond.

“Do you remember the favor I once asked of you?”  By her stiffening posture, she did.  “How soon can you accomplish it?”

“Few hours.  A day, at most.”

Bae nodded.  “I’ll inform my father that you’ve taken the morning to attend to private affairs—”

“No disrespect, Your Highness, but it is never wise to act on conjecture.  My duty, first and foremost, is to ensure your safety, and with it, this realm’s next king—”

“As this realm’s next king—!” Bae looked over his shoulder and along each direction of their path, seeing only intersecting walls of green, before he continued in a softer tone, “I should find myself unfit to rule if anything were to happen to them.”

After a period of silence, during which Mulan regarded Bae with caution, the guard bowed her head, swore, “They will be protected, the prince has my word,” and disappeared into the maze.

A shiver broke out across Baelfire’s skin and he remembered to button his shirt, to return the boot to his bare foot.  The days had yet to warm, spring evidently taking its time this year to rear its plentiful head, and the garden was a miserable sight for it, boasting few species of flowering plant.  Bae plucked one—a deep blue to match the banner of his House—and folded it into his palm.

As he came upon the palace’s west gate, he caught sight of two figures crossing the courtyard, arms linked.  They were two of a growing crowd, bodies amassing, forming a barricade between him and a clean getaway.

The sight of her set Bae’s heart racing and he cursed the wretched organ for a traitor.  She wore the color of mourning and her face bore its physical traces.  She avoided direct eye contact, but her aunt defiantly held Baelfire’s gaze.  After an obligatory if contemptuous bow, they continued on in the direction they were headed—the same as Bae, it would seem.

“Emma?”

She turned, holding fast to Jacqueline.

Bae cleared his throat into his fisted hand and attempted to correct his mistake, though, if he was at all honest with himself, he wasn’t certain of the appropriate title by which to address someone who’d come to them a princess, lived an hour as a Naval Captain’s wife, a fortnight as the only suspect in his murder, and was now a common widow, recently pardoned of all charges, and who was, by awkward extension, his niece.

“That is…uh…Mrs. Jones.”  He added a smile for good measure, but hesitated to speak further.  What was it he’d wanted to say?  What words were left that his actions hadn’t negated?

“I understand congratulations are soon to be in order,” Jacqueline interrupted before Bae could summon his better sense.  “I’ve not met the princess, but there are only virtuous things to be heard about her.”

The wind surged, gusting with enough force to make Bae stumble back.  His gaze sought Emma’s of its own accord—one habit he’d had particular trouble breaking.  If she had any feelings on his forthcoming engagement, she masked them well.

“Mrs. Jones,” he addressed Emma as though her aunt were not present, “I must plead your pardon for my offense against you.”

This surprised her.  Surprised them both, by Jacqueline’s expression.

“If the prince will forgive my candor, I do not think such subjects _appropriate_ for public dissection—”

“I have not called on you to convey my condolences,” he glared at Jacqueline, who, to her credit, appeared to regret her assumption, “and for this, I offer my most abject apology.”

Emma averted her eyes, and with this gesture, Bae knew her mind.  He had not gone privately to her and relayed his sentiments unseen, but had stopped her in the center of a courtyard that grew more populated by the minute.  And it had not been to rescind the insult he’d hurled at her the last time they were alone.  He couldn’t blame her for thinking him disingenuous.

“The prince is very kind,” she said without inflection.

Bae reached forward and took Emma’s hand, his own set ablaze by the contact.  “I cannot begin to fathom the depths of your sorrow, as my mother…” he nearly lost his nerve at the thought of his father’s mistress safe at home.  Outcast and isolated, but alive.  It wasn’t fair to liken his circumstance to Emma’s.  If given the choice, Bae had no doubt, Emma would’ve gladly borne the disgrace of having an unfortunate mother over having no mother at all.  “You have my sincerest sympathies, and my word: I shall personally see to it that your stay at my father’s court is…uneventful.”

Emma stared at him, dumbfounded.  Her eyes were lined by a deeper red, and it seemed an effort for her to speak.  When the words came, they were scarcely louder than a whisper.  “Why would you—?”

Baelfire pressed her hand to his lips, not unaware of the fact that had it been the left and not the right, they would’ve touched upon a scar that he’d given her—one she’d since kept hidden under too-long sleeves, lest anyone catch sight of it and learn the truth that Bae had come by the hard way.  “You are dear to…Wendy.”  He smiled as his practiced confession died on his tongue.  His mind swore at him, demanded he remember himself.  Remember his audience.  There was a time for the truth and this was not it—no, not by far.  Leaning close to whisper in Emma’s ear, Bae was tempted to linger a moment too long, to lose himself in her scent a final time.  “For safety,” he said as the plucked flower slipped from his grasp to hers.

When Bae backed away, Emma nodded.  She halted all movement, however, when her aunt’s scowl cut through them both.  The exchange had left Jacqueline enraged, but it wasn’t until Bae winked at her that the list of epithets she’d longed these twenty-one years to call him ran as a banner across her eyes.

Emma fought a smile—the first Bae had observed since news reached the palace two weeks ago that, unable to withstand the shame of a wayward daughter, Emma’s mother had taken her own life.  The warmth of it overwhelmed him, and suddenly his mind was overtaken by thoughts of what he might’ve done had there not been a crowd to witness him.

_“What could have done this?”_

A voice from Baelfire’s past came suddenly to sober him.  To shake him from his delusions of kindness and civility, and of the mistake he was fast on his way toward repeating.

_Mulan stood over him.  “Your Highness, perhaps we should consider those closest to the Captain—”_

_“No.”  Bae took in the remains as he teetered along the edge of hysterics.  “This isn’t the work of a man.  An animal, surely.”_

_There were portions of flesh torn from bones.  And blood—everywhere blood—_

With this final memory of Liam fresh in his mind, Baelfire renewed his vow to keep the late Captain’s wife at a distance.  He said, “Emma,” as though the very air he expended on her name was an offense to his lungs, and resumed his path to the palace.


	4. All Around Me Are Familiar Faces

“I demand to know what he told you in your ear.”  Jacqueline attempted a whisper as the prince stomped off, but she might as well have shouted for the court members casting glances in her direction.  “Did he threaten you?”

Emma hid her hands behind her back.  Soft against her skin, the petals prompted a memory, whispered a warning.  “No, My Lady.”

Jacqueline’s mouth narrowed into a stern line.  “Tell me what he said.”

“He is concerned for Wendy.”

While that wasn’t true of this precise moment, it was a safe response.  A standard one, given Baelfire’s predisposition toward worry with regards to all things Wendy.  Apparently seven sisters weren’t enough for him, as somewhere in the last thirteen years, he’d taken on another.

“Concerned!  What concern is my daughter to him?  If he cared anything for Wendy—” Jacqueline shook her head.  “I am not to hear of you speaking with the prince again.”

“I—”

She gripped Emma by both arms.  “Your mother chose death over a lifetime of ridicule for the scandal you’ve brought upon your family.  And it’s a safe assumption that your father at this very instant is lamenting the day a wretch like you was born to him.  You are in my charge now and I _will_ be obeyed, or you will find yourself in a situation befitting your misdeeds.  Is that understood?”

An argument formed on Emma’s tongue, but she dared not speak it.  Not trusting her voice for the familiar sting in her eyes, she nodded.  Jacqueline released her hold and linked their arms, just as she’d done outside the king’s study when fetching Emma from her morning session—another condition of her pardon that did little to quell the rumors of her guilt.

“Any moment now, the prince’s engagement will be taken before the Council for approval.  They’ve no cause to contest, of course—their blessing is merely a formality.”  Jacqueline sounded nervous, reciting these facts as though to quiet her own mind.  It was Emma’s understanding that in Glowerhaven, the only person with the power to overrule a proposed candidate for marriage was the king, and he’d been the one to arrange the match between Baelfire and the visiting princess.  Jacqueline’s thoughts seemed to follow Emma’s; she said, “I have long awaited this day,” and every trace of anxiety melted from her, even as she took up an impatient pace.  “Although…if he’s anything like his father,” Jacqueline spoke through a bright smile as she waved to Baelfire’s eldest sister, Persephone—who had only daggers for Emma—standing just outside the west gate, flanked on one side by her mother-in-law, Rosaline, and on the other by Councilman Triton’s daughter, Ariel, “no vow in the world will keep him faithful.”

Emma’s stomach twisted with nerves that drove her aunt’s voice to obscurity as Persephone Jones continued to glare, ignoring her company of ladies to do so.

Emma wasn’t a fool, though she’d been known to imitate one.  She had no misconceptions about her placement at King Brennan’s court.  Or the reason her father, despite his assurance that he never would, had abandoned her.  Guilt versus innocence was not the problem—she’d incited public outrage.  Had made herself into fodder for the gossips to feed on, and had turned her once proud family into something ridiculous.

“The King’s Council—” Emma began, if for no other reason than to distract herself from the unannounced arrival of Liam’s mother to the palace.

It was to be expected, she supposed, that Persephone would come for Baelfire’s engagement.  He was her brother, after all.  Half-brother, technically, but still blood.  Still just as richly cherished as if they’d had both parents in common.  Once the king recognized Baelfire in the presence of the Council and the court, once he’d named Baelfire his true son and heir, it was treason to address him as anything less.  But Emma had heard the rumors about him, not nearly as malicious as the rumors about her, but still unkind.  Still punishable by more than a day’s stay in the stocks.  _Half-blood_ was a popular moniker.  As was _bastard prince_.

“Is gathering as we speak,” Jacqueline said.  “But you are not to breathe a word to anyone.”  She flashed another smile at passersby only to adopt a grimace at their turned backs.  “There are hostile ears everywhere.”  She looked pointedly at a group of young men studying the architecture of the west gate, admiring its intricate design and distinctly mortal aesthetic.  They fell silent until Emma and her aunt had moved out of earshot.  “As you know, Arthur is still unaccounted for.  If his seat is left vacant much longer, the king will be forced to name a replacement.”  They entered the high-vaulted foyer of the palace’s west wing and Emma breathed deeply as the heat of a hateful stare began to subside—only a few short corridors and an unreasonably steep flight of stairs and they’d be safely back in Lethe Tower.  “Some believe he switched allegiances and the king’s men _took care of him_.”

Emma said nothing on the subject of the king’s personal guard and prayed her eyes didn’t betray her.  At present, her only concern was her latest letter reaching Misthaven before his body was found.

“Now,” said Jacqueline, “you’ll need to dress…modestly for the assembly.”  Her gaze drifted from the collar of Emma’s dress to the hems of its skirts.  The cut wasn’t indecent, but the garment was too tightly fitted for Jacqueline’s tastes—an opinion she’d not shied away from sharing whenever there was an opening.  _“It wouldn’t hurt to leave_ some _things to the imagination…”_ was her usual follow-up.  “I’ll not have you causing this family further embarrassment.  Gods know we’ve suffered quite enough of your exploits.”

No matter Emma’s efforts to persuade herself otherwise, the assembly was not an event she delighted in attending.  Indeed, dread was a term better suited to what plagued her.  Being forced to stand by while Baelfire promised himself to another woman…

She could think of a thousand things she’d rather be doing.  Among them: walking barefoot across a carpet of nails.

Had it only been six weeks since he’d made the same offer to Emma that he would, in twelve hours’ time make to a princess who hadn't been reckless enough to be stripped of her title?  Since they’d been happy?  Five weeks since Baelfire had unearthed Emma’s most damning secret?

 _You will survive this_.  She took a deep breath as this assertion rang hollow and her aunt’s grip turned to iron around her arm.  _You have to survive this._

If she could get a brief respite from Jacqueline’s ever-watchful eye, perhaps the mere act of dressing herself to face the final dissolution of everything she and Baelfire had meant to each other wouldn’t feel like such a feat.  But as they came upon Lethe Tower and as they crossed the threshold to find her uncle entertaining a strange man in the main quarter, Emma’s hopes of solitude were dashed.

James and his guest looked up from a somber exchange and quickly stood to greet Jacqueline, who then presented her niece.

Lethe Tower was located in a part of the palace so lacking in splendor as to be one step up from the dungeons.  Not simply isolated but a victim of disrepair, it yielded an atmosphere that was, at its best, disagreeable.  Where the whole of the palace was sweeping staircases and high ceilings and grand tapestries, carved woodwork, stained glass windows, the quarters Emma’s guardians presently called home were markedly humble—unpainted walls that showed every crevice in their construction, narrow corridors, bedchambers like prison cells.

James’ guest was a stark contrast to these surroundings, every bit out of place in his fine attire.  He wore casual trousers for comfortable travel and a modest waistcoat, well-made and tailored to fit, but not a piece to be found at any official court function.  A jacket of equal quality was draped over the chair he’d just vacated—evidence he’d been there long enough to be bothered by the added layer.  But despite the ensemble’s informality, there was no question that it cost more than an honest worker’s full month’s wages.  And it spoke to the man’s breeding as eloquently as his other attributes—perfect posture, impeccable manners, and a highborn accent from a region Emma wasn’t familiar with.  He wasn’t from the capital, that much she could say for sure.

As he offered his hand to her, as he held her own to his lips, brushing them softly against the portion of skin that still bore the prince’s imprint, when Emma took in his appearance up close—hair a shade above black, eyes as blue as the flower still tucked tightly against her other palm, every chiseled feature reminiscent of the Royal Family—she sensed that this man was not as strange as she’d first assumed.

Something—their joined hands, his close proximity, the shadow of death that suddenly clouded Emma’s vision of him—triggered the force inside she’d worked hard to tame, to control, and she struggled to remain rooted to the main quarter as the man said, “Killian Jones.  Captain of the King’s Royal Navy, at your service.”

Emma broke contact and the world sharpened around her.  She’d dropped the Captain’s hand as though she’d been burned by it, but forced composure when catching her aunt’s reproving eye.  “It is an honor to meet you, Captain,” she said through a tight smile.  “Liam spoke of you often.”

In the short weeks that Emma had known him, Liam had spoken of his brother once.  And only then to say that he had one.

“In that case, I do apologize.”

A chill ran across Emma’s skin as the Captain smiled.  He had his brother’s eyes.  His kind face.  Jacqueline laughed at his remark, but James couldn’t be bothered to so much as smirk.  Banter was beneath him—a member of the King’s Blood should’ve known better.

The Captain’s skin bore signs of an early tan, which prompted Emma to wonder if the months leading up to Year’s End were more temperate where he was from than in the capital, where she’d come to loathe their bitter chill.  He had a pleasant smile, but then so had his brother and it’d been erased easily enough.  The resemblance only grew from there—broad shoulders and strong arms and a face so striking it could’ve been sculpted from stone.  But Killian’s wasn’t without its scars.  One, a faint curved line, made more noticeable by his sun-kissed skin, stretched from the middle of his right cheek to just shy of his nose.  A childhood injury, perhaps?  Or had he narrowly escaped a more serious maiming as an adult?  A shadow of dark stubble along his jaw gave the impression he hadn’t expected to speak with anyone other than James when he’d arrived.

What business did he have with Emma’s uncle?  Was this another test, thought up by the king to torture her?  And why was it that when she looked at Killian Jones, she saw the life fading from his brother’s eyes?  Why, when he spoke, did she hear the hiss at his brother’s lips, accusing her of someone else's crime?

Had Killian Jones come to exact revenge upon her House?

The skin at Emma’s throat burned at the thought; the collar of her dress chafed, constricted like a noose—

Her expression must’ve betrayed her panic because her aunt and uncle and their guest regarded her as though she would fall faint.  And perhaps she would—was it the ground beneath her or her own legs that trembled?

To break the tension, or simply because the Tower’s only redeeming quality was its view of the garden, Jacqueline suggested they adjourn to the terrace.  “Fresh air is better suited to conversation, don’t you find?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before ordering one of the servants—a young girl named Grace—to bring them tea.  Then she took Emma’s arm and led the way outside.  Refreshments were served just as each of them was seated and Jacqueline had begun to prattle on about the unseasonable cold and how she hoped it would soon clear.

“It _is_ a pity your visit should coincide with such an unforgiving spring,” she said to Killian Jones, whom she’d ushered into the seat nearest her niece.

The wind died suddenly, leaving a palpable silence in its wake, and the Captain’s eyes locked briefly on Emma’s.  Never one to allow for a lull in conversation, Jacqueline lapsed into an anecdote sure to entertain the Captain, if no one else.

It wasn’t a conscious choice to stop listening, but Emma’s thoughts, ever intent to torment her, drifted to the night she’d been fetched from her chambers and dragged to a part of the palace she’d never seen before.  A corner, surely, that even during the day was untouched by light.  A night when Baelfire had demanded an explanation she couldn’t give.

_“Tell me you didn’t kill him.”_

_Emma said nothing._

_“Tell me you didn’t—” Baelfire swore under his breathe, raked his hand through his hair.  When his eyes met Emma’s, she didn’t know if it was the darkness or his own disgust that made them so unkind.  “Do you know why I stopped sending for you, even before your wedding?”  Emma took a step back as Baelfire advanced; the wall scraped the shoulders of her nightdress when he closed in, lowering his voice, “I know what you are.”  He studied her face, the allegation in his gaze like a physical pain.  A fire scorching its way across her skin.  “I saw what you did to Arthur.”_

_Emma stifled a gasp.  She couldn’t remember a time when words had failed her so completely.  When she’d had nothing to say in her own defense.  Even if she tried to explain, he wouldn’t believe her.  No one would.  The truth was more terrible than any lie she would ever tell._

_“What did you give my father in exchange for pardoning you?  That he would let a slayer of the King’s Blood roam free about the palace…” Baelfire scoffed, realization lighting his eyes as he looked her over.  “If it’s anything like what you gave me, I wonder he wasted his time.”_

_As the first tear fell, Baelfire watched it paint a path to Emma’s parted lips and lingered a moment before he turned away._

Keeping up his end of the conversation, the Captain inquired after Jacqueline’s family.  The quiet that followed caught Emma’s ear.  She paid only partial attention as James spoke on his wife’s behalf, as he grasped Jacqueline’s hand in a simulation of affection while informing his guest of the recent tragedy.  The Captain, unlike the prince, unlike so many others, didn’t relay his deepest sympathies.  Didn’t offer empty platitudes.  He turned to Emma and said that, though the pain would never truly disappear, it would lessen over time.  She would endure.  He spoke from experience.

Emma blinked back tears that formed without warning.  She refused to afford present parties an audience with her grief when the person she needed most couldn’t stomach the sight of her—that morning was the longest he’d spoken with her since he’d confessed to knowing what she was.  What she’d done.  At the same time, her chest grew tight with guilt and fear and—

Exactly how much did Killian Jones know about the night her husband died?

Jacqueline dried her cheeks in as ladylike a fashion as possible and asked the Captain about the provinces he’d passed on his journey—were there any festivals this time of year?

“A few.”  He grinned as a glimmer of mischief flashed in his eyes.  “But I could hardly count myself a gentleman were I to divulge their nature among civilized company.”

Jacqueline laughed.  “How delightful.”

Emma assumed Jacqueline meant the Captain’s wit and not the subject it would’ve been too unseemly to discuss, but she wasn’t the only one left uncertain—James gave his wife a quizzical look, which Jacqueline ignored.

“Do forgive me if I sound impertinent,” she said, leaning forward to better engage the Captain, “but I don’t believe I’ve heard of you before today—I was confident I knew all the king’s grandsons.”

Another grin, but this time there was something humorless about it.  Almost pointed.  But that could’ve been Emma projecting her own irritation onto the Captain.  There were days she was convinced she couldn’t have been the only soul in Glowerhaven who didn’t find her aunt the least bit charming.  And other days when she felt ungracious simply for harboring so hostile a thought.  This was not one of the shame-filled days.

“I’m sure your memory is above reproach.”  Emma nearly let a laugh of her own slip out at the sarcasm that colored the Captain’s words, which, thankfully, Jacqueline did not detect.  “Until very recently I was known by another name.”  He looked over the terrace wall, taking in its view for the first time.  “For most of my life, my mother failed to persuade my father of the fact that I was not, as he’d alleged, the product of infidelity.  I was therefore given a surname to suit my assumed illegitimacy.”  He didn’t move much beyond raising a hand to run along the base of his neck, but Emma would’ve bet the whole of her father’s war chest that Killian Jones wished he was anywhere else in the worlds.  “So I cannot fault you, Lady Jacqueline, for having no prior knowledge of me—my father, gods rest his soul, would be pleased to hear it.”

A strangled sound left Jacqueline’s throat; red colored her cheeks, and she latched on to her teacup for the discomfort of having insulted their guest—or, more likely, for the embarrassment of having broached so undignified a topic.  “What brings you to our fair capital so early in the season?  I’m sure the assembly can hold no great interest for you,” she stated, rather clumsily, to cover up.

Killian Jones smiled.  “Should I take no great interest in the engagement of my young uncle?”

“Oh, of course—I didn’t mean to imply…” James grasped Jacqueline’s hand in the vain hope that she would stop talking.

The Captain’s smile didn’t vanish, merely grew subtle.  An afterthought at the edge of his mouth.  “You are not wrong, Lady Jacqueline.  Though it brings me tremendous joy to see Baelfire _finally_  settled, my reasons for coming to the capital are not solely celebratory.”

Emma fought the urge to bolt from her seat when the Captain’s gaze landed on her.  His body shifted to accommodate the new focus of his attention and his hands seemed to go back and forth in favor of seeking hers, deciding ultimately to rest, somewhat stiffly, in his own lap.

“There is a custom in my family, wherein it is incumbent upon me, as Liam’s successor, to look after his estate.”  Killian Jones laughed in a self-conscious manner uncommon to members of his line, whose duties often saw them publically addressing their subjects.  Against her better judgment, and perhaps due in part to what he’d just revealed about himself, Emma found this trait endearing.  Until he said, “ _You_ are a part of that estate.”

She gaped at him as a strange foreboding took hold.

“I’ve come to the capital to secure the approval of your guardians.”

“Approval?”  Emma looked to James, whose face creased under the strain of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve asked your uncle’s consent to marry you.”


	5. All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: brief description of gruesome death.

Killian struggled to keep his demeanor calm, his posture relaxed, his feet from carrying him swiftly toward the door as the words burned like acid on his tongue.  He’d run this scenario in his head a hundred times, but no amount of practice could’ve prepared him for the reality.  Or for the bile that rose in his throat with every second he sat across from Emma Nolan.

He refused to call her Jones when she hadn’t been Liam’s wife a full hour before she’d slaughtered him.

“Haven’t you heard the rumors?”  She asked, incredulous, and much to the chagrin of her eager-to-please aunt.

Killian put on his best smile, even as he was momentarily distracted by Lady Jacqueline’s horrified expression.  “I have,” he said.  “But I’m familiar with the nature of rumors.  Especially those that circulate in the capital.”

Not that Killian knew much of anything about the capital, as he’d not been permitted to attend court since he was a small child.  Before his father forbade him from setting foot outside the borders of their village—a rule Killian had broken only once.

He brushed a finger across the scar on his cheek, wiped away a drop of rain that’d landed there before anyone could take note.  The winds had died down for a spell, but the storm would not be held off indefinitely.

“The king would not have pardoned someone who wasn’t innocent of all charges.”  Killian took a breath to ready himself for his next words, lest he choke on their delivery.  “Even someone as lovely as you.”

He expected her to blush, as young women were prone to do when complimented by a gentleman.  Not that Killian knew much of anything about young women.  Or gentlemen, to tell the truth.  He’d loved one woman in his life and couldn’t fathom feeling that way about anyone else, no matter the years he took to heal.  And there was nothing gentle about the men with whom his father had associated.

Emma Nolan didn’t blush.  She held his stare, her brow furrowed, flowery phrases having no effect.

“You…don’t believe I…” she stole a glance at her guardians, who appeared at a loss as to how to regain control of the conversation, then back at Killian.  “You don’t think—”

“You killed my brother.”

Killian’s pulse thundered in his ears, his heart raced, and his mouth went dry.  Saying it out loud, giving voice to the single, tortured truth that’d plagued him in the sleepless weeks since Liam’s passing—he almost couldn’t withstand the rush of wrathful impulses it unearthed.  But he tamped down on his inner tumult as lightning flashed in the distance, drawing nearer.  He’d come this far, had faced his own personal demon this long.  He could last a few minutes more in her presence.

He reached for Emma’s hand, held it gently in his.  It was a feat unto itself not to crush each delicate bone to dust.  They’d told him that Liam hadn’t looked human at the end.  Hadn’t even been whole.  That parts of him had been scattered about the room where he’d been found, alone save for _her_ , soaked to the skin, her white dress stained red.

“No.”  Killian smiled again.  He was beginning to feel the stress each new one put on his muscles.  “No, of course not.”

Emma gaped at him.

After a beat of silence, wherein she did not turn her eyes from his, didn’t so much as blink, Emma smiled—the first relatively genuine expression Killian had seen from her since she’d arrived.

“What a generous offer!”  Lady Jacqueline said with a tone not as wholly enthused as she must’ve intended it to be.  “And my niece accepts, of course.  Don’t you, Emma darling?  Tell the Captain you accept.”

Emma pulled her hand from his, her face briefly drawn with pain, and Killian saw the cessation of his every scheme.  It’d been folly to let them hinge upon this one answer.  But already he began thinking through a new strategy—the first endeavor was bound to go poorly.  That didn’t mean he would forfeit the effort.

As he readied himself for a gracious, if disappointed, speech about how her rejection would not tarnish the friendship he hoped would bloom between their two families, and as Lady Jacqueline positioned herself to intervene on her niece’s behalf, Emma shared a cheerless look with her uncle and nodded.

Killian had prepared himself to be let down.  To at least have to fight a bit harder for a second chance.  He was not prepared for Emma to say, “I accept.”

Success came with a jolt of relief, a pinch of dread.  That he would now have to marry his brother’s wife—his brother’s _killer_ —

Killian’s stomach twisted at the thought.

He supposed he’d cross that bridge when the time came.

“Oh, how splendid!”  Lady Jacqueline clapped her hands together.  “Come, my dear, let us give them their privacy.  I’m sure they’ll want to get better acquainted.”  She tapped Lord James on the shoulder and, after a sharp but fleeting glance between the newly betrothed, he followed his wife inside.

It’d always seemed a strange custom to Killian, especially for a society so obsessed with preserving a woman’s virtue, but if there was one thing Glowerhaven valued above all else, it was the strict adherence to tradition.  When a young couple first got engaged, they were allowed a few minutes alone to, as Lady Jacqueline had put it, _get better acquainted_.  This usually amounted to a few stolen embraces or a forbidden kiss, but those, Killian suspected, were more often reserved for love matches.  Business transactions, as far as he was aware, were not often sealed with a kiss.

It would’ve been easy to finish it here, if a life for a life was all Killian was after.  From what he’d heard, this was a rare occurrence indeed.  Emma Nolan, by order of the king, was never left unsupervised.  She had either a guard or her overbearing aunt trailing after her at all hours.  Two men stationed outside her room while she slept.  Maidens standing watch while she bathed and ate and filled her days with diversions suitable for a noble-born young lady to entertain.  The king had given his pardon, declared to all the realm that the erstwhile princess was innocent.  And yet, it was clear to anyone who paid the slightest attention that she wasn’t to be trusted.  What did the king fear might happen were she to be left to her own devices?

He knew she was guilty and still she did not hang—this, more than anything else, vindicated Killian’s revenge.

Thunder rolled overhead to remind Killian where he was, and why he’d come.  He cleared his mind of vengeful thoughts, furious as they were.  Bound to cause cracks in his carefully crafted façade.

He smiled at Emma, laughed quietly to himself.  “This is all a tad awkward, isn’t it?”

“No more than anything else in this realm.”  She’d relaxed a bit, even if she couldn’t quite make eye contact with him—her gaze landing on his check or his chin or the bridge of his nose.  “Your capital is rather fond of its rituals.”

Her blonde hair was braided into an intricate crown with precious stones woven between each plait.  It must’ve been the latest capital fashion, as every woman Killian had seen in the hour he’d been at court wore her hair the same way.  Emma’s skin was pale and free of blemish, her lips a muted shade of rose.  Her too-thin frame had not escaped Killian’s notice despite her obvious attempts at covering its every inch—the collar of her black dress spanned the full length of her neck, its edges grazing the underside of her jaw; its sleeves did not end at her wrists but extended well past the knuckles of each hand.  The left, he noticed, bore signs of having been stretched, and Killian wondered if she’d developed a habit of tugging at it when nervous.

He imagined she was attractive, assumed she must have been with such court-coveted attributes.  But Killian could’ve been sat next to a three-headed mountain troll for all the lust she stirred in him.  All he saw when he looked at Emma Nolan was a monster.  And the mask she wore to fool the world.

Her green eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the features on his face.  Killian would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t pleased by having unsettled her, even if the plan had been to win her over.

Then she said, “You look like him,” and Killian’s good humor was gone.

“Liam?”  He fought the urge to speak through gritted teeth.  “I’ve been told.”

“No—I mean, yes, you do.  But I was talking about the king.”

“His daughter is my mother, so it would stand to reason.”

“It’s just strange, I guess.”

Killian got the distinct impression she was trying to bait him.  “What’s that, Love?”

“That you should resemble him more than his own son.”

“Are you well acquainted with Baelfire?”  This had Emma looking away.  Though it went against Killian’s better judgment, though it drowned out the voice screaming at him from the back of his rational mind, warning him not to offend the woman whose favor he’d come to gain, he found himself setting a trap of his own.  “Rumor has it you two were quite close.  Once.”

Rumor had nothing to do with it.  Rumor hadn’t journeyed four days to the port town where Killian had docked, awash in heartbreak so acute it’d taken two hours and as many bottles of rum for it to get the truth out.  Rumor hadn’t collapsed in Killian’s bed, so drunk and disillusioned it’d forgotten its own name.  He’d never seen Bae in such a state, and he hoped never to again.

If some good was accomplished here—if Killian could avenge his brother _and_ mend even a portion of Bae’s broken heart in one fell swoop, his soul would rest just fine in the next life.

“You know the nature of rumors.”  Emma’s eyes locked on his, and there was no warmth to be found in them.  Hers was as cold and loaded a look as Killian had ever seen.  And he realized too late the gravity of his misstep.  “Especially those that circulate in the capital.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to—”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”  Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers twisting and pulling at a loose thread on her left sleeve, in contrast to the hardened stare that lent her features a lethal air.  “I’ve grown accustomed to the low opinions of others.”

“I don’t—”

A throat cleared near the doorway to the terrace a moment before Lady Jacqueline rejoined them.  “So sorry to interrupt,” she split her glance between Killian and Emma, reading the mood that’d emerged in the short time she’d been away.  “But the Captain has been summoned to the prince's chambers.”

Killian tried for a laugh but the sound escaped as a scoff.  “Has impeccable timing, that one.”  And Emma was not amused.

“Say farewell now, darling.  Wouldn’t want to keep His Highness waiting.”  There’d been an edge to Lady Jacqueline’s tone when mentioning Bae, though her face was as amiable as ever.  In a quieter voice that was meant for only her niece to hear, she instructed Emma to escort Killian to the exit.  “If you can manage that much without bringing shame on your family.”

If it were anyone but Emma Nolan, Killian might’ve felt pity for the way she’d flinched.  As it was, he felt a twinge of annoyance on her behalf, and it was a feeling that did not sit well.  She was his enemy, deserving only of disdain.

“Do excuse my husband’s absence,” Jacqueline said to Killian.  “He was called away on Council business.  You understand.”  Killian nodded, having forgotten that Lord James had ever been there—a difficult feat considering the proposition he’d made to Killian moments before Emma and her aunt had interrupted.  “He hoped you would be available to call again soon.  At your leisure, of course.”

“Of course.”

With some more prompting from Jacqueline, Emma did as she was told and walked Killian to the double doors that separated Lethe Tower from the dark corridor beyond.

“Please accept my apology,” he said in a more successful whisper than Lady Jacqueline had achieved.  “I truly meant no offense, but I can see that I’ve upset you.”

“As I said, Captain—there is nothing to forgive.”

“And you are quite possibly the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”

Though slight and though immediately traded for her previous scowl, this remark earned Killian a smile, and it dared him to hope that he’d not made a complete mess of things.

The farewell itself gave him pause.  While not strictly in line with tradition, it was not unheard of to give one’s betrothed a peck on the cheek when parting—perfectly acceptable, in some cases encouraged.  But Killian didn’t think he had the strength.  He was already starting to feel as though he might soon be ill and he’d only been at this charade for half a morning.

He’d come this far, he supposed.  He could swallow his self-respect for one final act if it would convince Emma that he was sincere.  Killian leaned in and, to his mounting unrest, Emma did the same.  But his lips never touched their intended target.

“It’s a trap,” Emma said so softly Killian almost didn’t hear.

Mouth dry—suddenly, inexplicably—and acutely aware of Lady Jacqueline’s eyes trained on them, Killian answered in kind, “What is?”  He pulled back to look at Emma, who gave a near-imperceptible shake of her head.

“Don’t trust him.”

Was she trying to _warn_ him?

 _Not exactly the action of a coldhearted killer_ , he thought.  Then commanded himself to get a grip.  She was clearly a master of manipulation—how else had she succeeded in not only seducing Bae but tricking Liam into marriage?  Killian couldn’t afford to be fooled by her false modesty.  She was every bit the viper Baelfire had promised.

Speaking of Baelfire—Killian didn’t relish the task of telling his young uncle about his forthcoming nuptials.  It was wishful thinking to imagine Bae might understand.  Were their roles reversed, _Killian_ wouldn’t understand, especially on so flimsy a justification as _it’s what Liam would’ve wanted._

Was Bae the _him_ Emma had implicated?  Did it matter?  Was Killian really entertaining the idea that she wasn’t dangerous?  That she wouldn’t lie to suit her own endgame?  Had he forgotten, even for a split-second’s time, that she was the cause of every nightmare he’d had over the last month?

“I’ll…keep a weather eye open,” he said and finally took his leave.

As the doors to Lethe Tower closed behind him and he stood alone at last on the other side, Killian took a steadying breath—one that was cut short by Lady Jacqueline reprimanding her niece.

_“-what would your mother say if she could see you now—such insolent behavior I have never seen.  Why, I’ve a mind to-”_

As he followed his feet as far from Emma Nolan as they would carry him, and as he tried and failed to calm the shaking in his limbs, he heard the first patters of rain dot each window he passed, the first gusts of wind rattle them.  The more distance grew between them, the more Killian felt a weight press down on him, tighten like a vise around his chest, tick down the minutes like a clock.

No longer able to endure the conflict raging inside him, mirroring the tempest that would soon lay siege to the palace, Killian locked himself inside the first chamber that opened under his persuasion and let down the barrier he’d put in place for his visit.  In the time it took him to breathe in and out again, the storm that’d so patiently obeyed its master’s command was let off its leash.


End file.
